Junk Raft by Marcus Eriksen

Author:Marcus Eriksen [Eriksen, Marcus]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8070-5641-7
Publisher: Beacon Press
Published: 2017-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

DAY 44: JULY 14, 2008, MILE 719

Hurricane Genevieve (Latitude 23°06’, Longitude 123°08’)

“You must stay in cold seas!” Charlie says over the satellite phone. We had called him for a weather update, frustrated that we are still becalmed, drifting about ten miles per day without raising the sail. On the chart plotter we’re moving in a figure eight, like the teacup ride at Disneyland, but over five days.

“Hey Joel!” I yell across the ocean. He’s swimming around with his camera and spear gun. He’s chasing a pair of four-to-five-foot ono swimming near us. He’s as comfortable in the water as he is on land. A puff of wind blows across the deck, sending the first ripples across the sea surface.

“Looks like we got some wind!” I yell again. The mizzen sail whips around with a light gust out of nowhere.

“I guess I ought to come back,” Joel replies. We raise the spinnaker and head due west. Within an hour we drop the spinnaker and raise the mainsail. I move the mahi mahi jerky inside the cabin, where it hangs above our heads with an unmistakable aroma.

“It’s got to be around twenty knots,” I say to Joel.

“Yup, we’re in the trade winds now,” he replies. Waves splash against our port side. We’re riding the twenty-third parallel, where the water is a comfortable sixty-five degrees. A little farther south, at latitude twenty degrees, temperatures rise to eighty, perfect bath water for a hurricane. We are literally racing hurricanes to Hawaii.

Hurricane Genevieve is southeast of us now, giving us steady wind. For the next forty-eight hours we travel ninety miles, swiftly making up for lost time. There are 1,850 miles to Hawaii, another thirty degrees of longitude to cross. If we can maintain three hundred miles a week, we’ll get there by the end of August. To put it into perspective, that’s driving from Los Angeles to New Orleans at two miles per hour, night and day, for six weeks.

On July 17, three days later, the seas build. Waves roll in, six to eight feet in height, with sporadic whitecaps that spill over the deck. You can recognize the ones that are going to hurt by the time and distance of the wave crest from us. A large wave peaks right beside the starboard side and dumps in my lap, knocking me to the deck. The sound reverberates throughout the raft; buckets tied into milk crates are floating about. The cooking box, an aluminum military crate with our stove, pots, and pans stored inside, crashes to the deck.

I’m on watch, while Joel is inside trying to read the last pages of Don Quixote under the swinging clothesline of mahi mahi jerky. I’m thinking of Charlie’s words: “Stay in cold seas!” We’re pushing Junk as close to the wind as possible, beating northward. Thirty-knot gusts of wind and rain rip through. I can feel the strain as the square sail wants to lift the raft out of the water, while the tangled mess of bottles underwater keep Junk anchored to the sea.

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